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Victoria, the royal publicist, cemented herself to my side. She was a middle-aged woman with red hair always pulled back tight into a bun. If I was being honest, the woman annoyed the hell out of me, but she always cleaned up my messes. She was good at her job, even though she hated my guts.
“There has been an opinion piece about your engagement to Christine published in the Daily News. Many people are excited to see you settle down but are skeptical about the whirlwind romance story. I’ll set up for you and Christine to have brunch in the gardens later this week and will tip off the paparazzi. Be sure to look in love.”
I swallowed. That wouldn’t be hard. Every time I looked at Christine, I felt my heart fall out of my ass. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to see her again. I was still so goddamn ashamed about my part in this.
“Got it,” I said before walking down the hall. Everyone followed after me like I was a mother duckling; they waddled after me in silence, pissing me off. I snapped my fingers when no one spoke up. “Are you all going to follow me around all day, or does someone have something to say?”
A brave soul cleared their throat. “Your Majesty, the invitations have gone out for the engagement party. When we asked Lady Abernathy about her preference for the menu and color scheme yesterday, she declined input,” a woman with a rather large proboscis that stuck out on her slender face said in a nasally voice.
I frowned. “If she doesn’t want to plan it, then she doesn’t fucking have to. It’s a party. You’ve done plenty of them.”
She squeaked while her short legs struggled to keep up with me. “But, sir, it’s customary—”
“I don’t like repeating myself. If. Christine. Doesn’t. Want. To. Plan. An. Engagement. Party, then. She. Doesn’t. Have. To. Put it together and make it worthy of the Crown. I don’t understand why you’re wasting my time by even asking me this.”
She stopped walking, her mouth hanging open as I continued on my path. Maybe my tone was dickish, but I wanted to set the record straight. Christine got whatever the fuck she wanted, no questions asked. My mother was forcing her to marry me with some fucking blackmail. She shouldn’t have to plan the sham of a wedding, too.
I made a mental note to talk to my mother soon. She’d conveniently gone to one of our homes in the country for the rest of the week, likely avoiding me.
As I continued walking, I felt myself grow more agitated. The castle was too damn big. Took at least ten minutes to get from one side to the other. “Sir,” a man in a suit said while matching my strides. He had slicked back hair and a gun strapped to his chest. “My name is Franklin Yellow, and I’m the Head of Castle Security. We would like to go over the new protocols—”
“Send them in an email,” I grumbled.
“I did send them in an email, but you haven—”
“What are the protocols, then?” I asked while pausing for a brief moment. Another mouse of a man—the royal tailor—took the opportunity to measure the length of my legs while I waited for Franklin fucking Yellow to respond.
“We’ve improved security on the grounds but need your approval to increase the budget and hire more men. With your father’s passing and the upcoming wedding, there’s more scrutiny on the royal family. We’ve received intel that is concerning and—”
I’d heard enough. Whatever. “Fine. Hire however many men you want.”
A woman carrying a clipboard cleared her throat while planting herself at my side. I practically choked on the pungent perfume she wore. “Excuse me, Your Majesty. My name is Millie Tilsworth. I am an assistant to the Head of Treasury.”
The man measuring my pants legs grazed my dick, and I slapped his hand away before continuing on my walk. “I’m assuming you also want something from me, Millie?” I said before clenching my teeth.
She coughed. “I’m just not sure it’s within the budget to hire more security.”
Franklin argued. “It needs to be a priority.”
Millie glared at him. “We need to have a budget committee meeting to go over this last quarter. We’re burning through funds with no clear plan for additional revenue. This wedding alone will cost thirty-four million dollars. I’ve discussed televising the event with public relations, but they said you haven’t approved it. Your father made some very questionable investments—”
“How questionable?” I asked while pausing in front of a table of flowers. I stared at the wilting petals, and it made me angry for some reason.
“We are at a loss of sixteen million and climbing right now.”
I stared at the flowers longer, thinking of Christine. “I want a full report of my father’s failing business ventures on my desk by morning and a clear plan of action for recouping the funds. I also want you to find room in the budget for security. I’ll marry Christine in a fucking cardboard box if that’s what it takes. Safety needs to take priority over vanity, Millie.”
Her eyes widened, but she quickly nodded. “Yes, sir. But your mother and the lords have made their desires for the wedding very clear—”
“My mother isn’t the one getting married. Do as I ask.” I nodded at Franklin while turning the corner. “I want to see the files of every person working in this castle. Leo Winthrop will be in charge of hiring.” It killed me to give him any sort of power, but he knew what happened to Christine, which meant he had insider information. I needed people I could trust, and even if it pissed me off, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
Franklin scoffed. “Leo Winthrop was demoted—”
“And reinstated. I trust him to make sure the security team is running top notch.”
His face bloomed red. “Your father put me in charge.”
I laughed bitterly. “And my father’s dead. In fact, that makes you significantly less trustworthy in my book. What’s your title again?”
